


Red Smoke

by Chifuyu



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29561730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chifuyu/pseuds/Chifuyu
Summary: Hux isn’t afraid of dying. Not per se. He’s endured too much to be afraid of a thing as trivial as death. What he fears, however, is to die a pointless death. To succumb to eternal sleep without having made a name for himself in the galaxy.But you have, haven’t you? his own inner voice provides, little helpfully.He shrugs. Perhaps. They don’t call him Starkiller for nothing. His name is synonymous with fear. Or it used to be, for oh so blissfully short a time. Until Ren, without so much as batting an eye, took it away from him: his power, his pride, leaving him a general in naught but name.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	Red Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> This little ficlet was originally written for the Starkiller Zine, a General Hux fanzine that has been in the works for a while. Now that all copies have been shipped out I can finally post my entry!
> 
> I was incredibly lucky to be collaborating with the wonderful [ItsSteffnow](https://twitter.com/itssteffnow), who contributed this beautiful illustration that you can also find in the zine. I'm so utterly in love with it and couldn't have asked for a better collab partner!

**Red Smoke**

  
  
  
  


Hux isn’t afraid of dying. Not per se. He’s endured too much to be afraid of a thing as trivial as death. What he fears, however, is to die a pointless death. To succumb to eternal sleep without having made a name for himself in the galaxy.

_But you have, haven’t you?_ his own inner voice provides, little helpfully.

He shrugs. Perhaps. They don’t call him Starkiller for nothing. His name is synonymous with fear. Or it used to be, for oh so blissfully short a time. Until Ren, without so much as batting an eye, took it away from him: his power, his pride, leaving him a general in naught but name.  
  
Pryde would’ve liked to kill him then and there, right on the bridge, Hux knows. He could see it in the cold glimmer in the man’s eyes, in the eager twitch at the corner of his mouth that came with the complacent epiphany that Hux was the spy they had been looking for all along.

But he couldn’t. Not without risking a revolt. Not without making Hux a martyr. Because Hux stood tall and proud, his voice clear when he proclaimed that he was the spy; when he cursed Kylo Ren’s entire existence and spoke out loud what everybody only dared to think: Kylo Ren is no leader. Kylo Ren is but a mad king, sitting proudly upon a throne that should have never been his. (It should have been Hux’s.)

With Kylo Ren at its helm, there would be no future for the First Order.

Hux sighs, feeling the tell-tale tingle of an approaching headache at the back of his skull. He shakes his head. Disgusted at himself for wasting what limited time he has left on thoughts of Kylo Ren.

And there’s no doubt that these will be his last moments. Pryde may not have dared execute him on the bridge but Hux isn’t so naive as to think that this means he won’t be punished for his transgressions. Not immediately though. His unexpected betrayal isn’t considered a priority. In their eyes, he’s but an unruly child; bothersome enough to be locked in their room but not important enough to be put under constant surveillance.

Of course, they’ve been clever enough to take his blaster and—much to Hux’s chagrin—also his hidden blade. They revoked his override access to the door codes, took his datapad, stripped him of his greatcoat. A last petty insult that stung far more than the backhanded slap Pryde bestowed upon him just before Hux was taken away by two troopers.

The same two troopers are now stationed outside his door, to act as his guards. When he cares enough to press his ear to the thick durasteel door, Hux can hear them exchange crude jokes

Even now Pryde is underestimating him: locking him away like this, put under house arrest until he deigns to concern himself with the traitor in their midst. For all his faults—of which there are many—Ren was never quite careless enough to let him out of sight; never underestimated Hux and the viciousness with which he was willing to cling to power.

Ren kept him close, breathing down his neck, pinning him down with but a single look. It amused him, Hux is sure of it: to remind him of the power he held over him. Sometimes in ways as brutish as Ren himself: a shove with the Force that sent Hux flying, a cruel world in front of High Command to remind him of his place. 

Sometimes with a subtlety Hux didn’t think Ren capable of: invisible fingers around his throat, just tight enough to make him gasp for air, or an irresistible pull when Ren left a room and expected Hux to follow without ever caring to voice those expectations.

Hux shakes his head to banish these unwelcome memories to the furthest, darkest corner of his mind. Too many hours has he wasted already with pointless musings and circling thoughts, all concerning Ren. Surely, there are more pressing matters at hand.

Like his looming demise at the hands of a man like Pryde.

Hux's hatred for Pryde is of a different nature than the one he has for Ren. Much less passionate (he scrunches up his nose at such an outrageous thought, though the truth of it can hardly be denied) but certainly older. Perhaps that's why his dislike for Pryde doesn't burn quite as hotly. He's had years to learn how to resent Enric Pryde. Years that taught him patience and resilience.

As a friend of his father, Pryde had no love for him. Certainly no sympathy, not even as a small boy when every person crossing Hux's path ignited a spark of hesitant hope in his naive mind. Maybe this time they'd help him. This time they wouldn't laugh at the abuse Brendol dished out with such relish. Maybe this time his suffering would inspire compassion instead of sadistic amusement.

Pryde—like all the men before him—turned out incapable of such tender emotions. At best, Hux's tears were a source of amusement. At worst, they were an unsightly display highlighting his many shortcomings and bringing more shame to his father and the First Order.

Looking back, Hux figures that it shouldn't have come as a surprise: Pryde had always been unremarkable, uninspired, ordinary, even in his cruelty. A tyrant like so many others before him.

Putting his hands behind his back, spine ramrod straight, Hux wanders through his makeshift prison with all the grace befitting a former figurehead of the First Order.

The odds are stacked against him, it hardly takes a genius to see that. Nevertheless, his over-eager mind acts out dozens of possible escape scenarios, each more unlikely to succeed than the last. At this point, it's merely an indulgence. 

This is the end, he knows.

Nobody is going to come to his aid, not as he had for those bumbling idiots who called themselves generals of the Resistance.

He scoffs, allowing himself to feel indignant for a moment. Of the same rank as him, yet so laughably underqualified for it. Had they bled for the title, like him? Killed for it? Lied for it? Fought claws and teeth until it was theirs?

He doubts it.

A violent shudder runs through the ship, almost causing Hux to lose his balance. He stumbles forward, his foot nearly catching on the corner of his beloved sofa.

A hit. Strong enough to penetrate their shields it seems.

Driven by a sudden, inexplicable urge, he hurries to the viewports on the other side of his quarters, allowing him an unhindered view of the vastness of space lying just behind inches-deep transparisteel.

They've come. The Resistance has come. But not only the Resistance. There are ships not part of the Resistance too; ships not built for battle, certainly no battlecruisers or X-wing starfighters, but crudely modified freighters, transport shuttles, and in one memorable case, something looking suspiciously like an ancient Nubian starship.

Hux's eyes widen.

How quaint. After staying silent on Crait, after the Resistance’s cry for help went unheard, the galaxy has decided to answer at last, sending peasants, thugs, all the lowlife it had to offer. This is no fleet. It’s a circus.

All the more painful then, that this, this...farce, is enough to bring the First Order down to its knees.

Another hit rattles Hux to the bones and causes the neatly arranged paperwork on his desk to shuffle to the ground in a messy heap.

He steadies himself, puts his hands on the transparisteel, and watches with narrowed eyes as the Resistance's makeshift fleet throws itself into battle.

They're using the same tactic that has once cost the Order a Dreadnought. Their small ships flying so close their cannons cannot target them. Have they learned nothing?

A furious snarl rips itself free from Hux's throat and he drags his nails down the transparisteel until the screeching sound—like howling banshees—is ringing in his ears.

He's acting unreasonable, embarrassingly emotional—a weakness both his father and Rae Sloane have chided him for before.

And yet, he could never quite rid himself of this unsavory trait. Always feeling the Order's losses like his own, every defeat a personal slight against his persona.

You have no right to feel this way.

Of course, he doesn't. Not when he was the one to orchestrate the First Order's downfall.

He knew it would come to this. Or did he?

Maybe not. Maybe there, in the secret corner of his mind where such sentimentalities lay, there lingered a foolish hope that his betrayal would only extend so far. That it would be just enough to dethrone Kylo Ren but not enough to bring the First Order down with him.

There could've been an Order without Ren. In another world, that is. A world that valued competence higher than blood. And advanced technology higher than a dead religion relying on mystical humbug. A world that saw Ren for what he truly was: a loose cannon, a feral beast.

Back when Ren was no more than a boy, powerful but inexperienced. Unfortunately, he was also arrogant, willful, and prideful enough to refuse the help Hux so graciously offered.

Hux remembers the day he first laid eyes on the heir of Darth Vader well. Little impressive, despite the long, flowing robes and extravagant mask. Physically imposing, certainly. But not even the lightsaber handle dangling at his side could awe Hux much.

He's seen lightsabers before. Collected them for a while. Not out of any misguided sentimentality (He's not Ren) but eager to learn their secrets and use them for his own research. Or better, use the kyber used when building it. How unimaginative, he thought back then, to use this powerful source of energy for weapons as primitive as sabers.

Not soon after meeting Ren, Hux had to revise his opinion on the usefulness of lightsabers. At least partially. Not even a skeptic such as him could withstand the glimmer of excitement threatening to ignite in his chest when he first witnessed Ren decapitate a captured Resistance spy with one broad stroke, his lightsaber purring as it cut through flesh and skin and bone.

It was then that it occurred to Hux that he and Ren would benefit from allegiance. A powerful union, the joining of his own brilliant mind with the raw, untamed power that Snoke used to be so fond of waxing poetic about. 

Truly, they could've been kings. More than that. They could've been gods. And, perhaps even more important than that—though Hux would've never allowed himself to admit it—Ren was another lost soul. A man willing to carve his destiny into the bones of those who had wronged him. 

Hux has no doubt that Ren knows he killed Brendol, perhaps even envies him the ease with which he's done it.

Parricides, the both of them. 

Your experiences aren't as unique as you think they are, he told Ren once upon a time.

It had been intended as a comfort, a sign that, despite what Ren believed, the two of them weren't so different. Naturally, Ren took it as an insult, as he did everything that would imply anything but exceptionalism regarding every aspect of his life. Too fond was he of claiming uniqueness to allow himself the simple comfort of shared experiences.

Let him, Hux decided back then, the sting of rejection too familiar to hurt him for very long. Though now that it doesn't matter anymore, he can't help but wonder if Ren—unlikely as it may be—at times regrets the ease with which he had rejected Hux's offer back then.

Hux certainly hopes so. Let Ren regret. It's the least he deserves.

Another cannon is torn apart by blaster fire, its sorry remains drifting in the non-existent gravity of open space.

Hux curses silently under his breath, feeling numb. There are lines of red adorning the viewport where he's scratched the smooth material.

Blood, he realizes with a start. His own. A quick look reveals that his nails are broken, defeated by the unyielding transparisteel.

And yet, he doesn't feel pain. What are a few broken nails compared to the anguish that has taken a hold of him at the sight of the gruesome spectacle unfolding before his eyes, just outside of his reach?

Is Ren witnessing the same thing right now? Does he care? Has he ever?

He takes a weary breath and is surprised when his lungs are promptly filled with a ravaging fire.

Coughing violently, he looks around and realizes with dawning horror that his chambers have filled with smoke, thick waves of it creeping through the ventilation shafts and the minuscule space beneath the durasteel doors.

They must have destroyed the ventilation systems, Hux reasons with himself, watching idly as more and more smoke fills the room, swirling around his lower legs like a Lolth cat begging for a treat.

The smell of melting metal and burning flesh follows soon after as if the smoke was merely a herald announcing the arrival of a feared warlord with unnecessary fanfare.

Not much longer then.

He walks through the thick smoke with single-minded determination, waving away the thick clouds where they've already risen up to his chest. Soon, he won't be able to see. And not long after, he won't be able to breathe anymore, all the recycled air replaced by toxic fumes. 

It's unlikely he'll burn to death. No, he'll be long gone by the time the fire has eaten through the durasteel. He'll suffocate. If he's lucky, he'll fall unconscious before that.

It would be an undignified, pathetic death.

Hux grits his teeth, holds his breath and hurries into his bedroom.

No matter what, he's not going to die like that: defeated, broken, left behind, and killed like an afterthought.

The smoke is even thicker in the bedroom, filling it almost completely. He has a hard time making out his bed, let alone find what he's looking for.

It's a nondescript box. Durasteel, black, with a matte finish, nothing attracting undue attention, the only clue that it might hold something of some value the fact that it was hidden under his bed, not unlike the unsavory holo-prints of scantily clad women so many of the Troopers collected and which Hux pretended not to know about.

The contents of the box are far less scandalous or, if they are, then the scandalous qualities are of quite a different nature.

Pressing his thumb to the DNA-lock, Hux watches as the box springs open with no little delight. Even in a situation as inescapable as this one, the sight that greets him doesn't fail to ignite a certain degree of schadenfreude in him.

His gloating isn't long-lived. Another coughing fit interrupts his silent appreciation and he stands, the box under his arm, to flee back into the recreational area of his chambers where the smoke hasn't filled the room yet. Though it's merely a matter of time.

He puts the box down in front of him and sits down on his knees, facing the viewport. Outside, the war rages on. Judging from the number of TIE fighters still in the air, they're hopelessly outnumbered. Already, the empty space in between ships is filled with debris and the corpses of those who have been hurled out of their crafts by one explosion or another.

Hux watches silently, his eyes burning from the smoke, and feels nothing.

That's a lie. 

He feels, but it’s not what he thought he'd feel while witnessing the fall of all that he’s built, everything that he held dear. There's no hatred for the Resistance—even now he considers them beneath him, unworthy of his anger. There's no desperation. No grief.

At most, he feels a cold defiance that magnifies with every TIE fighter lost, with every new hole torn into his beloved Star Destroyers.

Take it, he thinks spitefully. Take it all if you must. But you're not going to take me. 

Brendol couldn’t kill me. Snoke couldn't kill me. Kylo Ren couldn't kill me. What makes you think you could?

Hux straightens, pulls back his shoulder blades, and reaches out to take the lightsaber, nestled in black velvet, out of the box.

The design is unremarkable. He thought so the first time the salvage crew presented him with the weapon. Certainly nowhere near as flashy as Ren's famed lightsaber. But unlike Ren's saber, this one was carefully constructed, a masterful piece of craftsmanship not even Hux can deny.

He presses the activation stud and the saber comes alive with a soft purr.

That too had been a surprise the first time he examined the weapon. He hadn’t anticipated that, after all these years buried in a tomb, it would still work. A pleasant, if unexpected surprise. 

Even now he can’t help the streak of pleased satisfaction that runs through him at the sight of the crimson blade. Kyber truly is a remarkable source of energy.

What a shame then, that it's being wasted on weapons as primitive as lightsabers.

But it will do. It might be considered fitting even, for what he's about to do with it.

Another explosion rattles the ship, momentarily throwing Hux off balance, though he's quick to collect himself.

There's no more time left to hesitate, for doubts. No time for frenzied calculations in his own head and impossible scenarios that might lead to an outcome different from this one.

He's not trained with melee weapons of this kind. The only training he ever received covered only the use of a blaster. And the slim blade hidden beneath his uniform's sleeve that required a different kind of dexterity: one that is of no use when it comes to the handling of a lightsaber.

Useless, he can hear his father's voice echo in his head, incapable even of a task as simple as thrusting a blade into his own heart.

"Is that so..." Hux wonders aloud, gaze fixed on the lightsaber's light.

It burns but he doesn’t avert his eyes, not even when he can feel the tears start running down his cheeks.

No, not useless.

Deadly.

Who else can lay claim to the trillions that had died when an entire star system was annihilated?

Who else can say they've gone toe to toe with the most powerful Force-user the galaxy has seen since Darth Vader?

Who else built an empire from nothing but ashes and the emptiness of the Unknown Regions?

He has never been useless. Had he been, he would’ve been long dead already. His usefulness has always been his only means of survival, after all.

And now he has outlived it. The scales have tipped and not in his favor. All his achievements judged null and void.

The triumph of Starkiller Base overshadowed by its destruction.

The power he wielded second to none but Snoke—now taken from him.

The empire that should've been his about to collapse.

He deactivates the lightsaber, presses it to his chest, and takes one last look at the indestructible beauty of space. There’s no time for regrets. He’d even go so far as to consider them a waste. Perhaps things could’ve been different in another time, another life. But allowing such thoughts to manifest was to allow sentimentality into his heart and mind. 

He will not stoop so low. He will not bow. He will not bend. They shall not have him. Nobody shall. Not the Resistance. Not Pryde. Not even...

He grits his teeth, lifts his head up high, and presses the activation stud on the lightsaber.

“Goodbye, Ren.”


End file.
